A Song From Way Back

Since my mom passed away a couple years ago, my dad has been clearing out a lot of stuff. One of the things he found were the lyrics of a song I had written for her seventieth birthday. No idea what the chords or melody were, but the lyrics were sung in such a way as to actually fit.

The Bessie Blues

In 1919 in the usual way
Bessie Dodds arrived on her own birthday,
The very soul of punctuality,
“Here’s your coat, Jim, wouldn’t you agree?”
This plucky little girl’s gonna beat the odds—
We’re talking ‘bout a girl named E.C. Dodds.

She went forward at the CMA,
And her conversion lasted to this day,
Even though she thought it was the preacher’s hand
That got her into the promised land.
This feisty little Christian’s gonna beat the odds—
We’re talking ‘bout a woman named E.C. Dodds.

She did not remain in the great white north,
She heard God’s call and she sallied forth.
There were trials; she won’t slip on these,
As she goes to preach the gospel to the Nipponese.
This missionary’s gonna beat the odds—
We’re talking ‘bout a lady named E.C. Dodds.

She came to that country shortly after the war,
Little realizing what was waiting in store.
When Jim came around, he was told to get lost,
But he thought Canadians were supposed to have frost.
This married little lady’s gonna make my rhyme worse—
We’re talking ‘bout a woman named E.C. Wilson . . . blank verse.

Back in the States, she reared three sons
No more, no less—they were the only ones,
Except for the daughter, I was getting to that,
Who, like father Noah, landed Ararat.
This little lady taught her daughter quite well—
If you can, get a man, whose name you can’t even spell.

Down through the years, there were trying days,
But in the Daily Light, God spoke in divers ways.
She kept her family as strong as you please
With prayer and faith and macaroni and cheese.
This little woman’s gonna beat the odds—
We’re talking ‘bout a lady whose maiden name used to be Dodds.

I went down to the paperback store
Where I saw a pile of romances galore.
I said to the clerk, “Do folks read this stuff?”
She said that my mother just can’t get enough.
This little lady’s just plain out of luck,
Cause no one she knows is quite like Regency Buck.

So now we come to three score and ten,
She’s got her hymns picked out and wants God to say when.
She’s still the soul of punctuality
Cause she’ thirty years early, wouldn’t you agree?
This little lady has beaten the odds
She wound up a Wilson, but only cause she started a Dodds.

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